No, this isn't some new governmental body created by the Bush administration (although I'm sure that if they could figure out a way to censor sound, they'd do it). It's what I used to call a "sound engine"--a poem that really doesn't have any particular meaning, but the words sound good together. At least to my ear, they do.
The discovery of quiet is rare.
Days press on and press until
the noiseness is all and now:
headaches ringing to the shins;
yawning to the point of tears;
hearts sloshing on Valentine's Day.
All tone isn't speaking too down
today. Its immediacy drums at
the rib cage, prays at the alter of
marrow and meat, and gets the body,
has the body, knows its scent,
tastes its sensibilities, worms
its desire. That's how the dreams
sometimes burn: "It's the street,
man, it's the street. You know it
true, man. Don't you know it...."
Happens that way sometimes when
the search for discovery converts
to a dinky series of soul spanks
and the rarity of quiet sends
telegrams that say only "Chill."
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